


Snake in the Grass

by JaneDavitt



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Rape, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-10
Updated: 2010-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-08 20:32:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/79267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneDavitt/pseuds/JaneDavitt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair's past comes back to haunt him, but he's got troubles in the present, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snake in the Grass

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Caro Dee's Moonridge anthology. Many thanks to Wesleysgirl for beta reading this and making it better.  
> Contains a short flashback to Blair being raped as a teenager by an older boy.

I'm not jerking off out here on the balcony just so that Jim won't find out when he gets back and takes his first suspicious, testing sniff of the air in the loft. (Which he does as soon as he's closed the door behind him. Definitely a sentinel thing. He didn't know he was doing it until I told him, and then he tried to stop himself and couldn't, which pissed him off even more than being told.) It's _part_ of the reason I'm out here, sure -- and God, why do I care if he knows I jerked off while he was out? It's natural. Normal. Impossible to give up. Maybe he schedules these hour-long absences every now and then just so that I can -- no, that's crazy talk, Blair.

I don't do that for him. I don't need to; I have a social life that doesn't revolve entirely around him, thank you, and Jim has plenty of alone-in-the-loft time to wrap those long fingers around that -- Look at that. Just thinking about Jim's assets has gotten my dick up and waving to catch my eye. Patience, grasshopper. Plenty of time before Jim gets back, and it's not fully dark yet.

There's a breeze tonight; it'll take the scent of come away, though I'll still need to shower, because it'll be all over me, no matter how careful I am, which isn't very. Love the feel of it spurting out of me and hitting skin, love the way it looks, creamy white and so fucking elemental, you know? If it didn't itch so much, I'd let it dry on me, soak in, do a fucking Tarzan yell, and dance and beat my chest, wet dick slapping my thigh.

Jim's not the only one with a primal side.

If I'm honest, though -- and why not; it's just me and my hopeful, happy dick, a warm summer breeze, humid and soft blowing by -- I get off on doing this out here. I don't get off on the idea that someone could see me; that's not my thing. I've dragged the deck chair into the shadows and I'm lying on a blanket behind it, hidden, a pillow under my head. I just like doing it under the sky. There's something so wild and free about it. My first time was in a field of long grass, not my bedroom, and it set a pattern. I can still remember feeling the sunlight hot on my body, the tangle of grass under me pressing patterns into my back and ass. I had to close my eyes against the light and the inside of my eyelids were a warm, glowing red, not a firework-streaked black.

I thought I was going to die. I knew what I was doing; I don't think I was ever ignorant about sex or naked bodies; I knew what went where at a time when most kids still believed in stork deliveries. Still thought that the way my heart was pounding and my body convulsing meant I'd done something wrong.

Then I got my breath back, stared up into a dazzle of blue, every muscle relaxed, sizzles and tingles racing around my body, and mouthed a reverent 'wow' and did it again.

And now I've got a dark sky overhead and raindrops landing on me from time to time, and my dick's warm and hard in my hand and I'm back there in that field.

Jim's going to be gone a while, but I don't want to cram in two climaxes the way I did back then. No, I want this to last. I've gotten good at that.

I let myself picture Jim's head jerking up sharply later, walking from his truck to the street door, this breeze carrying a whiff and tang of me to him, giving my secret away. Would I like that? Jim knowing what I do out here? Would it turn him on? Would he join me, maybe? Kneel beside me and put his hand over mine, his mouth on the skin I'd exposed?

Hell, knowing Jim, he'd arrest me --

I work cuffs into the swirl of images twisting through my head and let my fingertips brush lightly over my dick before pushing my shorts down a bit more so that I can get to my balls. I like to cup them, roll them, the hair there a vague tickle against my palm. Like to explore the soft, wrinkled skin, finding smooth places, bare of hair. Like to tug at them and enjoy the pulse of arousal the small discomfort carries with it.

It's a hot night and we need the rain, but the soft patter of drops is already ending, the clouds drawn past by the breeze. I'm naked apart from these shorts and suddenly they feel like armor, heavy, constricting. I push them down, kick them off impatiently, and settle back against the blanket with a sigh.

No lube out here. I didn't have any that first time and I don't need it now. I skim my hands once over my erection, a teasing, swift pass, and then let them rest by my sides.

Don't need to touch. Just need to think.

It's Jim, usually, who provides the fantasies that work my desire up to the point where the only way I could keep my hands off my body is if they were tied to something. I avoid him after these sessions if I can, taking an early night or going out until he's safely asleep. I feel guilty using him this way, but not enough to stop.

The arrest scenario seems promising and I follow it for a while until I'm bent over the hood of a police car with Jim, in the uniform I've never seen him wear, behind me, sweaty and tired from a long shift, pissed at me for speeding, but attracted to my ass and my smart mouth with its glib excuses. (Jim always wants me in these jerk-off fantasies; it's the one constant). I let him mouth filthy, furious, lust-filled words in my ear, words I'm not sure Jim's ever said to anyone in his fucking life, and moan, more at myself for how… grubby this has gotten over the years.

What did I think about in the grass that summer day? I try to remember, and Jim slips away, and the hot metal of the hood pressing against my chest vanishes. I'm back in the grass, a breeze whipping stalks of it against my arms and legs, a persistent fly annoying me.

A girl? A boy? My crushes back then were fervent and indiscriminate. Gender didn't govern them. Twelve, maybe thirteen years old, and I already knew it never would. Whoever it was, whatever I'd used to awaken a part of me that had never slept since, that knowledge was lost. I let my mind slip back to Jim, and the visual I pick of the long, strong line of his back is enough to kick my arousal up a notch. I fist the blanket and pant softly, hips fucking air.

He'd been leaning over the table, wearing nothing but a towel, reading the paper. His attention had been caught by an article on the front page, but he was in too much of a hurry to sit. I'd stood behind him and memorized every muscle, every shade of water-reddened skin, admired the flex and ripple as he flicked the pages to get to the rest of the article, continued on page whatever.

That's harmless, I tell myself as I grind my ass against the rough weave of the blanket. He knew I was there.

It's not enough. I make the towel slip and fall, walk forward, grab him, my breathing hoarse and ragged as he struggles to get free and then gives way. Do I like him like this? Submitting, pliant, darting beseeching looks over his shoulder, begging me silently to take him, use him, fill him, fuck him --

Hmm. My dick's still in the game -- just being out here naked is enough to keep me hard -- but I've lost an edge somewhere, the kind I'll need to end this. That one works sometimes, sure, but not tonight…

It's lonely out here. It'd been lonely in the grass, too. I add something new and say Jim's name aloud, just as I'd say it if it was his hand stroking my hip, not my own, rising up from the blanket.

_Jim_, I say in a whisper, then in a moan. _Jim_, I say and speak it aloud, as if he's close by. I don't scream it out. Why would I need to? Jim can always hear me.

Time's ticking away, and I _want_ this. I need the release; it's been a crappy day, like the tail on a barking dog, because the rest of the week's been shitty, too. I need to burn it all away with the kind of orgasm that leaves me shaking and spent.

I need that fucking wow back.

Sorry, Jim. Take one for the team, will you, and do a buddy a favor? Ooh, yeah, Jim in a locker room, muddied, bloodied, triumphant, needing a little geek groupie worship to make the win complete. Making me wait until we're alone and then walking over, a towel slung around his neck, naked, his cock already beginning to fill and stiffen…

I see myself slip to my knees on the hard tile floor, feel the hot head of his cock nudge my mouth open. He tastes of sweat and dirt and --

Grass.

I whimper and bite my lip hard, and somewhere in the last minute, I've started jerking myself off, clumsy, painful, perfect strokes, dry skin on skin until I rub the damp head of my cock against my palm, screwing into it, and the wetness there gathers and it's enough, slippery only for a moment before I've used it up, but it's enough --

Jim's in the grass with me now, and we're the same age, just two boys, shy smiles, flickering looks, some push-shove-daring going on before we get out our dicks and compare, show off.

He touches me first, his breath catching when I cry out softly, his hand jerking back until I catch it and put it back on me.

"It's okay --"

And it is. It's more than okay. I touch him, too, sealing the deal, and we roll together and kiss, soft skin of his face just starting to be prickled with stubble that scrapes against my lips as they miss his mouth -- oh, fuck, I'm not twelve, no, this is three summers later, four, and it's not Jim, it's -- no. Not him. God, please, not him --

I want it to be Jim. I tell myself I'm still safe with Jim. Jimit'sJimit'sJim, I chant silently in my head.

But it's not. It's not Jim.

Brown eyes, dark hair, beer-sour breath and a handful of grass pushed into my mouth to keep me quiet -- hard hands hurting me but not as much as what comes next --

My head rolls against the pillow I brought out and I should feel its softness, but instead dirt and stones press bruises and grime into my scalp. I'd had to wash gravel out of my hair later under an inadequate shower, looking down and seeing the water swirling around my feet turn cloudy with blood and earth.

I can't stop what my hands are doing, can't prevent what's going to happen.

I'm going to come remembering being raped and I'll never wash that shame away. Tears push their way out of my squeezed-shut eyes, hot and acid, and I'm hurting myself now, fingernails clawing at tender, vulnerable flesh. It's karma. It's retribution. I used Jim just like that boy used me --

From nowhere, distracting me, a cool breeze strokes across my fever-hot skin and the clean rain starts to fall. It's too perfectly timed a rescue for me to trust it's real, but when I lick across a smarting, sore lip, I taste it, clean, flat water.

My hands still and then move away. Back to the blanket.

I let the rain clean my face of tears and then, with my concentration back in place, I start over, cautious touches, careful strokes, but I build that hard-on up again, jerk by jerk, until it's standing proud.

Every time I've thought of that day before, I've cursed, punched walls, gotten drunk, or, in my saner, more mature moments, meditated until the memory lost its power. I might do all of those things when I stand up, but right now, I'm going to come, dammit.

I picture Jim in the grass, my Jim, just as he is now, fully dressed, a fishing fly in his hand. He looks at me and smiles at my efforts to untangle a knot in my fishing line. "Just cut it, Chief," he says and tosses me a pocket knife. "Start over."

And when I have he kisses me and rubs his knuckles gently against my cheek.

I smile up at the rain clouds. Nice… but I can do better than that tame, Hallmark moment.

I move us to the jungle and let Jim stalk me, pounce with a growl, hold me down, blue eyes gleaming in a mud-striped face as he grins down at me and I smile back. Let him scent me, nuzzling into every hollow and groove, let him lick me clean and fuck me dirty.

Let him love me.

The grass is different in our jungle. Blue, like Jim's eyes, not green.

I come, thinking of nothing much in particular, not with the mind-wiping pleasure I'd craved, but it's enough to relax me, chill me out. I lick the come on my hand and take the faint taste of grass away finally. It's an old memory, and a bad one, but years of therapy have taken its power away. Tonight was a flashback, no more. I can deal with that. I'm good at forgetting the bad stuff.

I really want to thank Jim for being there to save me, even in a fantasy, and then I want to apologize. I can't do either of those things and keep this secret of mine safe, but I really do want to. I decide that's punishment enough for using Jim to get off yet again and wonder, briefly, what he'd say if I asked his permission to fantasize about him and make him do so much kinky, deliciously dirty shit to me. Could make for an interesting explosion after his initial, open-mouthed gape of blank incomprehension. I'll save it for a day when he's feeling depressed and needs distracting.

I pick up the blanket and the pillow, both soaked now, and slip inside the loft to clean up.

When Jim gets back, he sniffs, catches my eyes, and flushes. Busted. Then his forehead wrinkles in thought, he sniffs again, deliberately this time, and he looks at me and smiles knowingly. He doesn't say anything, but he ruffles my hair as he walks past the couch.

When he sits next to me with a beer, I want to crawl into his lap so badly I can taste it. Want to be held and petted and protected.

But Jim as father figure is one kink that doesn't interest me, so I slide to my knees instead, push his legs wide -- and his zipper hisses down before I've finished licking my lips in anticipation and he's already smiling contentedly.

Jim's a traditional man; for him, sex is something you do on a bed, usually at night, and that's fine with me most of the time, but I know how much he loves it when I can't wait and do him right here on the couch. He told me once, stammering over it, annoyed with himself, that it makes him feel wanted.

I'm all over that. There's no one I want more.

(I just wish.)

_His cock nudges my lips and I open them wide for him and he's earned this, my mouth serving him, because that touchdown was fucking perfect and --_

"Chief?"

Jim's voice pulls me out of the fantasy and I blink up at him resentfully, startled, until I see the resignation in his eyes.

Oh, God, he knows --

He eases out of my mouth with a killingly gentle care and I shift back to give him room to stand, my face burning, and let him walk away, mount the stairs, get into a bed I guess I'm not welcome in tonight, though I know we'll smooth this over.

We need each other too much not to.

(I just wish he was enough.)


End file.
